“Is this a dream?" The words spilled from her mouth.Owen's grip on her hand tightened, that lone dark eye trapped her with its serious intensity. "Waking up across from you is the stuff of which dreams are made. But, no.”

“Sometimes you wake up from a dream. Sometimes you wake up from a dream. Sometimes you wake up from a dream.And sometimes, if you are very lucky, you wake up and it's real...”

“Stay away from her. Don't look at her; don't even think about her. If she appears to you in your dreams, wake up and punch yourself in the face for me.”

“She sleeps. And now she wakes each day a little less. And, each day, takes less and less nourishment, as if grudging the least moment of wakefulness, for, from the movement under her eyelids, and the somnolent gestures of her hands and feet, it seems as if her dreams grow more urgent and intense, as if the life she lives in the closed world of dreams is now about to possess her utterly, as if her small, increasingly reluctant wakenings were an interpretation of some more vital existence, so she is loath to spend even those necessary moments of wakefulness with us, wakings strange as her sleepings. Her marvellous fate - a sleep more lifelike than the living, a dream which consumes the world.'And, sir,' concluded Fevvers, in a voice that now took on the sombre, majestic tones of a great organ, 'we do believe . . . her dream will be the coming century.'And, oh, God . . . how frequently she weeps!”

“The kind of eyes that jumped from a woman's dreams right into her morning and made trouble in the marriage bed.”

“Her expression almost never changed. Made it hard to tell what she was thinking. But also made her seem separate from the rest of the world. It was like she lived so deep in the ocean even lightcouldn’t reach her. Like a fish that couldn’t see the dark lonely depths, because it was always dreaming about sunlight.”